


Beneath the Surface

by ArdeaJestin



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdeaJestin/pseuds/ArdeaJestin
Summary: Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.





	Beneath the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for "Crimes of Grindelwald"! If you've seen it and are currently aboard the Angst Express, we will make good travelling companions.

 

There are brutal changes, and there are small changes, but all of them twist the definition of what’s normal until the concept has lost its meaning.

 

Such as, for Newt, being alone with his creatures, in his house, safe from the folly of the outside world. The cataclysm has wrenched his door open and it is likely it will never close again, although it’s too early to tell if this is a positive development or not.

 

“Morning, Newt. Morning, Tina.”

 

“I didn’t wake you, did I, Jacob? Came home late – up to my ears in paperwork at the Ministry…”

 

“I’m good, don’t worry. Here, want some coffee?”

 

“And you, Newt? Did I wake you?”

 

He’s still not quite used to hearing Tina say his name so often, and it sends a quiver through his stomach every time. He’s sitting there at the table, buttering his toast and dumbstruck, making every effort to hide it.

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

It’s not, none of it, but then it’s only breakfast, and the pale grey sun shines outside for what it’s worth.

 

In the last few weeks, they’ve managed to rebuild a semblance of routine and a semblance of home: Jacob is staying in the guest room, and Newt immediately ceded his room to Tina when the Ministry delivered her temporary working permit. There had been talks of her finding a place of her own, talks that had shredded Newt’s heart at the idea that she could be in London but not be here, with him, safe and certifiably so, but those had stopped when Jacob announced he wouldn’t be returning to America without Queenie.

 

They are careful not to speak of her too much. Jacob has a good cry now and then, but never in front of Tina, intuitively sensing that the depth of her loss is beyond his own torment.

 

And  Tina  doesn’t  flinch,  at least not in front of them . She doesn’t come out with elaborate plans to defeat Grindelwald or  lash out in long tirades against  his followers. She doesn’t blame Jacob – no, in fact, she is so fiercely protective of him, as if he was an extension of the sister who isn’t there, that Jacob doesn’t quite know what to do with all this  attention . 

 

Tina is only hard at work. She comes and goes at impossible hours, barely eats, keeps her mouth shut in a thin line. Newt fears that she blames herself. From what she told him, the real clash came when she started to realize what lengths Queenie would go to to marry Jacob in spite of his reservations.

 

“Maybe I should have...” she starts, eyes in the vague distance.

 

She never finishes her sentence, but those four little words are eating away at her. Newt can’t remember the last time he saw her smile (actually, he _can_ remember, but the memory is so vivid he unfolds it sparingly), and her face is pale and sharpened with intent. If anything, it makes her even more beautiful.

 

He wants to find a way to soothe her anguish, to tell her there are no maybes or ifs here, only the all-too-familiar rebellion of a younger sibling who can no longer stand the sound advice of the eldest and sees it as an arrogant wagging of the finger instead of genuine care. But what good would that do? Tina would think he’s trying to convince her not to be sad, then withdraw even more.

 

He must reach out to her somehow. He pictures himself taking her in his arms, stroking her hair, feeling her heart beat against his and learning where he must touch her to have her whole and warm and trusting again.

 

But he is only now starting to be comfortable in expressing his affection towards his brother, someone he’s known since birth, and picking up the cues that are so damnably elusive in humans when they need comfort. How will he ever manage with Tina, whose presence is so utterly disarming it throws off all the instincts he’s accumulated over the years?

 

“You’re getting good at this,” Theseus told him at the funeral.

 

The corners of his mouth lifted as he left Newt’s embrace, but he hadn’t managed more than the ghost of a smirk. They’d turned to the unmarked grave and stood a moment in silence, though they were looking at nothing, because there had been nothing to bury.

 

*

 

His brother has been dropping by more often since then, with the pretext of some urgent piece of information or other. He comes in and sits at the table with Newt, drinks the tea Bunty sets in front of him, eats the food Jacob cooks. If circumstances were different, Newt might be amused to see this decorated war hero and esteemed Auror being copiously fed by a Muggle and fretted over by a placid, doe-eyed witch who was born and raised on a farm. Neither of them have much to offer in battle, yet in time like these, one shouldn’t underestimate the capacity to get things done and provide simple necessities. People mistake this as unimportant, because to most of them _simple_ means _stupi_ _d._

 

Newt has made many mistakes, but this has never been one of them. He is amazed at Jacob’s resilience and finds Bunty a great deal more interesting since she’s stopped following him around, asking for directions. They make lists and measures and roll up their sleeves – they _buck up_ , while the two Scamander brothers mourn and stare into the dredges of their tea.

 

When Bunty has left for the evening, the tea is sometimes replaced by stronger stuff. Tonight Newt waits in silence and observes his brother as he carefully folds his napkin. Is this a good night or a bad one? Which way does the scale tip, now that the days are getting shorter and colder?

 

“Let’s have a glass,” Theseus finally says, and then Newt knows he can’t face going back to his empty flat.

 

Whiskey, brandy, cherry, all that matters is the fire it leaves in their throat. Jacob tosses a few shots back until he is red-faced with bravado, swearing he’ll get Queenie back and punch that evil bastard who put a spell on her mind right in the face. Newt wavers after one glass, his mind racing with pointless queries and dead-end answers. But Theseus simply drinks impassively until his eyes are wet with tears and Newt senses he’s coming apart at the seams. And so he and Jacob lift him from his seat and settle him on the couch, tucking him in for the night in spite of his slurred protests, and Newt has to go sleep on the folding camp bed downstairs.

 

*

 

Later, surrounded by the muted snarls and faint scuttles of his menagerie, Newt lies awake and wonders what would happen if he didn’t retire to the basement, if he went up to Tina’s room – _his_ room – instead. She came home early tonight, so he knows she’d be there, lying in her bed – _his_ bed.

 

He is rationally aware that’s not how things are done. One cannot simply show up in the middle of the night and offer… _everything_ , no matter how long – no matter how much… No, there is a proper way to do this, a correct order to respect. He should invite Tina to go out and do something together in a nice place.

 

“Tina,” he says out loud, and that’s about the only thing that feels instantly right when it rolls of his tongue. In fact, it feels more right than almost any other word he knows, and when they were separated he would often murmur it to himself – but he’s getting distracted.

 

“Tina,” he starts again. “Would you like to go some place nice and do something with me?”

 

He tells himself he can always fill in the blanks later when he comes up with an idea, but even if he did find the words to wrap gut-wrenching longing into a presentable little box, she would never accept, because she can’t let herself be happy right now. She would think it some sort of selfish indulgence. She might even be insulted that Newt suggest such a thing. A candlelit dinner or a walk hand in hand in the park, what would it mean when there’s so much on her mind, and so little of it that isn’t weighed down with anger and grief?

 

He would have thought those twin emotions might be his allies as well, knock some reason into him and pour cold water on his expectations. He should have known better. He’s already fought in a war, he’s experienced what kind of deep-rooted instincts are awoken when the rule of law evaporates and senseless carnage takes its place. Surrounded by death, you do anything to feel alive. For some, that meant going to see the bawds in behind the lines. For Newt, it meant spending every waking hour with the Ironbellies, until licks of fire gnashed at his flesh and scales sharp as flint bloodied his hands.

 

Despite the scars, he thought he’d forgotten – another world, the war, another time. But he recalls the feeling well now. Dejection and danger do nothing to abate his yearning for Tina, on the contrary. He is consumed by it. He wants her so much he can’t think, can’t see straight. It’s a constant burden in his mind from the moment he wakes until he crashes down wherever he can sleep.

 

But now it has swelled to such proportions even sleep eludes him. He closes his eyes and rubs his hands against his face in frustration.

 

“Tina,” he whispers in the dark. “ _Tina_.”

 

*

 

All things considered, love was much easier when it remained theoretical, Newt reflects the next day as he’s weaving a new nest for the Occamies.

 

Back when he was a boy, back at Hogwarts, he thought he was in love. Although he’s being unfair to his younger self: he really _was_ , the way you can be when you’re an awkward, lonely fourteen year-old who meets someone he can truly talk to for the first time, encased in impossible loveliness and grace. There were no lies in the clumsy poems he composed for Leta, no pretence in the way he imagined himself to be her devoted knight and she his lady, like in the old stories of courtly romance. They had the advantage of presenting a gaze, a brush of the hand and a chaste kiss as the pinnacle of emotion, and that Newt could manage.

 

Leta, given her family story, was not greedy for human touch, but her need for words and promises and reassurance was bottomless. (How did Theseus manage to convince her where Newt could not? It doesn’t matter now. He will never know which one of them Leta truly loved, but at least he remains certain which one of them she needed.)

 

Here, he finds himself in the exact opposite situation. Tina doesn’t care one whit for fancy declarations of passion. He will get nowhere by telling her that this last year has been agony, draining his considerable supply of patience, and that now that she’s here, every moment when he’s not kissing her feels like he’s drawing out his own suffering.

 

Maybe he should just do it, then.

 

How would he go about it? Pass by her in a corridor, grab her wrist and pull her to him, circle her waist and press his lips against hers? Some women must like that sort of show of conquering masculinity, but the logistics alone are enough to give him a headache. Where in the house? And when? What if Jacob or someone else walks in on them? How would he even know the angle is right and not hurt her? Nothing good ever gets achieved by barging head on, unless it’s holding your ground against a male Erumpent defending its territory. But Tina is more like a spirited, skittish Aethonan who will bolt if handled brusquely.

 

That’s it, then, he realises as he puts the nest down. Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.

 

*

 

Newt takes up the task, such as it is. He tries his best to bestow little attentions upon her whenever he can, asking if she slept well or if she needs anything, volunteering to make her tea even when Bunty or Jacob are there, giving her a book he’s just finished and knows she’ll enjoy.

 

“I read this and thought of you,” he tells her, plunging his eyes into hers and forcing himself not to look away.

 

“ _Plants of Magical Britain Great and Small_?” she asks doubtfully, but there’s a little bit of spark and amusement he recognises there, and it thrills him.

 

“Well, you see, it’s actually quite poetic, there’s a whole section about the right conditions for a Flaming Waterlily to bloom and its legendary beauty.”

 

Her mouth parts slightly and pink colours her cheeks. Jacob, who’s preparing dumplings for dinner, glances at Newt over his shoulder and gives him a little grin. This is welcome encouragement.

 

He doubles his efforts, brushing his fingers against hers when he hands her something, sitting closer to her than he should when she’s showing him a map or a newspaper article of interest so that their sides are touching. But even though Tina blushes and fiddles with a strand of hair and speaks in a lower pitch than usual when she’s talking to him – all signs that point to her being receptive to his attempts - she seems to slip away every time, her gaze full of restrained disappointment and the same longing he sees his own eyes when he looks in the mirror, which leaves Newt wondering if she understands what he’s trying to tell her.

 

He’ll have to be more straightforward, a thought that both horrifies and electrifies him. He’ll have to take a risk, leave no room for doubt. He decides that the next time Theseus takes his place on the couch, he won’t go down in the basement.

 

A few nights later, as he watches his brother slowly descend into the blissful stupor of drunken sleep, he rakes his hand through his hair and stalks around the living room, racked with nervousness. He could always… No, he couldn’t. No excuses. It has to be now.

 

Up the stairs, across the corridor, he moves with infinite precaution not to make the wooden planks creek, although this also buys him a few additional moments to clear his head. Forbidding himself to pause lest he lose his nerve, he knocks softly on the door, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and opens it.

 

Tina is sitting up in her bed. The glow of the lamppost outside shines through the gauzy drapes and half her face is bathed in light, like a waxing moon.

 

“Newt,” she says.

 

He’s expecting her to follow up with a perfunctory _What are you doing here?_ but they’re obviously done playing a game where each one pretends not to know what the other’s intentions are. There can only be one reason why he came to her room at two in the morning. He waits in the doorway, bracing himself for rejection, but she only looks at him with a mix of curiosity and anticipation, and so he steps in, closing the door behind him. Slowly, he makes his way to the bed; Tina shifts, and it’s almost nothing, but it’s enough that he can sit down next to her.

 

“I’m not asking you for anything,” she whispers, suddenly averting her eyes. “Not right now, not when you...”

 

She trails off and he’s confused for a moment. Why would she think he’s making some great sacrifice? And then it dawns on him. _Leta_. She thinks they can’t be together because he’s mourning Leta. A daunting thought unravels in his mind that she’s been holding back for exactly the same reason as him.

 

No more, then. They’ve missed the mark far too many times already, and he will not waste another second. He raises his hand to her face, tentatively cupping her cheek in his palm.

 

“You don’t have to ask,” he murmurs. “Tina, I can’t bear it any longer, having you so close to me and yet not being able to comfort you as I should. It’s driving me mad, I just – I want to give you at least one moment’s respite. Please, let me.”

 

Newt’s senses are on high alert, looking for any hint that she might want him to leave, yet none comes. He leans towards her and their lips naturally glide together, two halves of a whole. He’s dreamed of this for so long, every hour of every day, that he deepens the kiss and pulls her flush against him, drinking her in, dizzy with relief and desire, a thirsty man after an endless walk through the desert. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and there’s only way this can go if they don’t stop now. Trembling fingers are working to unbutton his shirt, and it takes him all the willpower he has to halt them.

 

“Tina,” he pants, “are you sure you…?”

 

“Don’t,” she replies, her tone almost pleading, silencing him with another kiss.

 

She’s right, it’s pointless to be talking now when her delicate little moans are so much more eloquent in telling him what he should or shouldn’t be doing. She doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to think, and now neither does he, and even if he did he couldn’t – there’s nothing else but the taste of her and her soft skin under his hands and the slip that slides over her like water when he pushes it up. Newt thinks he could drown right here in her arms, but as such they need to part for air and to get rid of his own clothes – logistics again, he’d like to rip the damn things off. It is a breathless, frenzied race until finally, _finally_ they are both bare, nestled against each other on the bed and moving with the rolling current of arousal. He smooths her down carefully, with slow, meticulous strokes until he’s sure she’s ready, then sinks into her.

 

He is ungainly at first, overwhelmed with the rush of sensations, overwhelmed with the simple fact that it’s possible to experience such crushing pleasure, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in thoroughness and Tina seems to appreciate it – eyes closed, heightened pulse, a flush spreading on her chest… He stops for a moment just to look at her. Merlin, she’s so exquisite the sight alone is almost enough to shatter him into a million pieces.

 

Tina opens her eyes and catches his gaze, embarrassed, as if she thinks he’s inspected her and found a flaw, and this is what breaks him: that even in this moment, where the world around them could burn and that wouldn’t be enough to tear him away, she thinks she might have failed somehow.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes into her neck, desperate, and repeats it, again and again, until either she believes him or he collapses from the strain of his lust.

 

It’s hard to tell which comes first. Afterwards, as they lie shivering and sated in each others’ arms, there is nothing in Newt’s mind but an all-encompassing calm, and the absolute certainty that he will never again hold anyone the way he’s holding Tina now.

 

*

 

It’s only when the grey morning comes and Newt wakes, still basking in her warmth, that he asks himself if Tina felt the same.

 

He props himself up on one arm and looks at her. She’s still asleep, but he can’t resist tucking a tousled strand of dark hair behind her ear, then bends down to kiss her temple. She rouses and her lips curl into a tender smile before her eyes even open.

 

When they do, the smile fades, yet stays somewhere right beneath the surface, hidden away for no one but him to see. There will be better times, when it will be free to shine again, but until then it’s a secret he’ll gladly keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my "trying to process a garbage fire of emotions after watching CoG" fic.
> 
> This is dedicated to the wonderful Sarie Gamgee, my friend and fandom sister. Love you girl <3


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